The sun had set; off beyond the glistening green woodline, the sky was
duskily red. The air was full of that freshness of twilight, which is
so different from the dew of morning.
Elliott left the bran-dance by a new road which was plain and
characterless until he had passed through an unpretentious gate and was
driving along the old elm avenue, a part of the Carr domain, which was
undeniably picturesque. Shortly the elm branches came to an end and he
entered a park, indifferently cared for, according to modern ideas, but
well stocked with timber of magnificent growth and of almost every
known native variety. Perhaps the oaks dominated in number and majesty,
but they found worthy rivals in the towering elms.
Neglect is very picturesque in its effect, whether the thing neglected
be a ruined castle or an unkept tangle. The unpicturesque things are
those in which man’s artificial selection reigns supreme.
Had Elliott’s order-loving mother been with him, she would have
observed that this park was ill-maintained, and that she would dearly
love to have the thinning out and regulating of its trees. Whereas, to
his less orderly fancy, it presented a most agreeable appearance. There
was Nature’s charm wholly undisturbed by man, and what perhaps added
the finishing touch to his satisfaction was the exceeding number of
maples, in the perfect maturity of their growth. These straight and
goodly trees so screened the house that he was very close before it
could be seen. Even at the instant and before he had looked upon more
than its gray stone frontage almost smothered in Virginia creepers, up
to the very top of its rounded gables, Elliott was pleased.
It was a secluded place. Its position was, according to his taste,
perfect. It had the blended charm of simple, harmonious form and
venerable age. It faced almost southeast, the proper aspect for a
country house, as it ensures morning cheerfulness all the year round,
and the full advantage of whatever sunshine there is in winter from
dawn practically to sundown and the exquisite effects of the rising of
the moon.
Low-growing lilies breathed seductive fragrance, and the softness of
the air permitted the gay party assembled to indulge in what would have
been indiscretion in a more northerly climate. Young girls discarded
their straw hats and danced upon the smooth, green lawn, while elderly
chaperons could retire to the halls and porches if they feared the
chill night air.
As Elliott approached the moonlit crowd of figures, Dorothy Carr came
out to greet him. A young woman, tall and slight, with a figure lithe
and graceful, made more perfect by ardent exercise. A skin which had
never been permitted to lose its infant softness, with lips as pure
as perfect health and lofty thoughts could make them. Her blown gold
hair was lustrous and soft, and she carried herself with the modesty of
the gentlewoman. Her blue eyes were dark, their brows pencilled with
delicate precision combining a breadth that was both commanding and
sweet.
“I am delighted to see you again, Mr. Harding,” Dorothy Carr said,
graciously.
“And I am delighted to be here,” replied Elliott, as he turned with his
fair hostess to a rude seat fixed about the bole of an oak.
“It was upon your grounds that we last met,” she added after a slight
pause.
“Yes, and I have waited with some impatience for an invitation here,
which came just to-day. You see how quickly I accepted.”
“What a dainty reproof,” she said, laughing. “But I have been away all
the summer or you should have been invited here long ago.”
A few such commonplaces passed between them, then Dorothy referred to
Elliott’s speech, which she had listened to with interest.
“I was so suddenly called upon that I did little justice to the
subject, and it is a subject of such grave responsibility. But perhaps
it is just as well that I did not have time to present it more strongly
for it appears to have been already misunderstood, and I hear that not
a few have branded me with all sorts of bad names. I trust I have not
fallen under your condemnation.”
“Well, to be frank, I think you exhibited a somewhat fanatical anxiety
to lecture people differently circumstanced,” she answered gravely.
“Yet I did not condemn you. I hope you give me credit for more
liberality than that. You are new to our land, and have much to grow
accustomed to. We should not expect you at once to see this matter as
we do,” was the evasive reply.
“She certainly does not lack the courage of her convictions,” he
thought. Then aloud:
“You evidently think I shall alter my views?” this in his airily candid
manner; “I stated the true conditions of affairs, just as I understand
them.”
“There is the trouble. The true condition is not as you and many others
understand it.”
“Then let us hope that I may fully comprehend before a great while. I
at least intend to make the best of this opportunity, for, as you may
know, I have settled permanently in Georgetown.”
She looked up with a beautiful aloofness in her eyes. The brave mouth,
with its full, sensitive lips, was strong, yet delicate.
“I am glad to hear that, for then you can hardly fail, sooner or later,
to feel as we do about the subject of your to-day’s discussion. I hope
to help you to think kindly of your new home.”
“Nothing could be more comforting than this from you,” he assured her,
with that frank manner which suited well the fearless expression of
his face. “I am now delightfully quartered with my kinsman, Mr. Field,
whose acres join yours, I believe; so we shall be neighbors.”
Then they laughed. “We are really to be neighbors after all our quarrel
in the mountains? Well!” she added, hospitably, “a cover will always
be laid for you at our table, and you shall have due warning of any
entertainment that may take place. It shall be my duty to see that you
are thoroughly won over to the South; to her traditions as well as her
pleasures.”
“But changing this flippant subject to one of graver importance, just
now; there is one thing absolutely necessary for you Kentuckians to
learn before you win me.” His face lighted with a charming smile.
“What is that?” she asked.
“You must first know how to make Manhattan cocktails.”
She answered with a pretty pout, “I--we can make them now; why
shouldn’t we? Doesn’t all the good whiskey you get up North come from
the bluegrass state?”
Amused at her loyalty, Elliott assented willingly: “That is a fact. And
I like your whiskey,--a little of it--I like your state--all of it--its
bluegrass, its thoroughbreds, and its women. But, you will pardon me,
there is something wanting in its cocktails, perhaps--it’s the cherry!”
“A fault that can be easily remedied, and--suppose we did succeed,
would you belong to us?”
“I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly.
Here the music of the two-step stopped, and Uncle Josh, the old negro
fiddler, famous the country over for calling the figures of the dance,
straightened himself with dignity, and called loudly:
“Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!”
Dorothy could not keep the mirth from her lips. Uncle Josh was not
measuring time by heartbeats but the cravings of his stomach; his
immortal soul was his immortal appetite. However, whatever motive
inspired him to fix the supper time, it proved efficacious, and
partners were soon chosen and the dancing began again as vigorously as
ever.
Dorothy and Elliott were not slow in joining the other dancers and
glided through the dreamy measures which Uncle Josh, despite his
longing to eat, drew forth sweetly from his old, worn fiddle. He was
the soul of melody and had an eye to widening his range of selections
and his inimitable technique appreciating the demands upon his art.
When, with an extra flourish, Uncle Josh eventually brought the music
to an end, Mr. Carr, with his easy Southern manner, courteously invited
every one in to supper. He led the way, accompanied by Elliott Harding
and Dorothy.
How pretty the dining-room looked! Its half-light coming through soft
low tones of pink. Big rosy balls of sweet clover, fresh from the
home fields, were massed in cream tinted vases, bunched over pictures
and trailed down in lovely confusion about the window and straggling
over door frames. Upon the long table stood tall candlesticks and
candelabras many prismed, with branching vines twisted in and out in
quaint fashion, bearing tall candles tipped with pink shades. From
the centre of the ceiling to each corner of the room first, then to
regular distances, were loosely stretched chains of pink and white
clovers. Large bows of ribbon held these lengths in place where they
met the chair board. In each corner close to the wall were jars which,
in their pretty pink dresses of crinkled paper held in place by broad
ribbon sashes, would scarcely be recognized as the old butter pots of
our grandmothers’ days. From these jars grew tufts of rooted clover.
Even the old fireplace and broad mantel were decked with these blossoms.
At each side of the table stood two glass bowls filled with branches
of clover leaves only; one lot tied with pink ribbon, the other with
white. When supper was served these bowls were passed around while
Dorothy repeated the pretty tradition of the four-leaf clover. Then
commenced the merry hunt for the prize that only two could win. Bright
eyes and deft fingers searched their leaves through.
While this went on, in the dining-room just outside, under the moon
and the maples, near the kitchen door, was another scene as joyous, if
not so fair. At the head of the musician’s banquetting board sat Uncle
Josh, hospitably helping each to the good things Aunt Chloe had heaped
before them in accordance with the orders of “her white folks.” She was
considered one of the most important members of the Carr household,
having been in the service of the family for thirty years, being a
blend of nurse, cook and lady’s maid.
As Uncle Josh’s brown, eager hands greedily grasped the mint julep, and
held it sparkling between him and the light, with a broad smile on his
beaming face, he exultantly exclaimed:
“De Lawd love her soul, Miss Dor’thy, nebber is ter fergit we all.
Talk erbout de stars! She’s ’way ’bove dem.”
While he and his companions drank mint julep in token that his
grateful sentiment was recognized as a toast to the fine hostess, the
dining-room was ringing with laughter and congratulations over Elliott
Harding’s victory, he having found one of the four-leaved trophies.
“Where is its mate?” was the eager question as nimble fingers and sharp
eyes searched over the little bunches right and left again, anxious to
find this potent charm against evil. The search, however, was vain.
Some one asked if its loss meant that Mr. Harding should live unwedded
for the rest of his days.
The evening closed with jokes of his bachelorhood.
By midnight the dining-room was still, the table cleared, the only sign
of what had been was the floor with its scattered leaves.
All tired out with the long hours of gayety, Dorothy had hurried off to
bed. There was a little crushed four-leaved clover fastened upon her
nightgown as she lay down to her sweet, mysterious, girlish dreams.